Novelization
by Apocalypticism
Summary: Helga returns to Hillwood to write a novel. "Maybe I had bird bones, hollow on the inside, and a tiny little fluttering heart that was always on edge. Maybe it was my instinct calling for me to return home to haunt the streets I had long since abandoned."
1. Chapter 1

Novelization.

There was a blackbird that had a nest in a large oak tree. Everyday I would watch it fly to and fro, collecting delicate grass bit and fragile twig so that it could make itself a sturdy home. The bird would hop along, cock its head with a nervous little twitch, and look at me, it was like the insipid thing was grovelling for my approval. Then it would fly off and go on building is nest.

I watched the nest grow from a humble pile of kindle to a large, misshapen half sphere. It was better than listening to another burned out teacher's tenure lecture. The bird always fascinated me, much more than the nest did. It could make its home wherever it pleased, it answered to not man nor comfort nor convenience, only instinct. It could fly away: it was tethered to nothing. When it was frightened or threatened or even if it felt like it, it could simple flap its wings and be gone into the cold October sky.

But yet they always came back to their haunts. Their instinct called, it whispered, it crooned in their little bird ear: come back, come back, dear heart. During college, year after year, a blackbird would build that same nest in that same spot and in the spring there would be little blackbirds opening their little maws wide, hungry and starving for food and for life. And then one of those little blackbirds would be back, building the same nest their parent built.

Maybe I was a bird in a past life. Maybe I had bird bones, hollow on the inside, and a tiny little fluttering heart that was always on edge and made me prone to fast, illogical reactions. Maybe it was my instincts calling for me to return home, to haunt the streets I had long since abandoned.

Either way, I set foot in Hillwood for the first time in five years. Bob and Miriam were waiting for me near the luggage claim, where it took me all of five seconds to pick up my lone checked bag. I had a habit of travelling light, as unlike most women my age, I never did much in the way of face-painting. That save me rather a lot of room.

Anyway, Bob and Miriam. They looked a little older, little greyer, and Big Bob was bigger and balder. They had long since accepted that I wouldn't call them Mom and Pop except in rare instances when I felt it prudent to regard them as parents. So when I gave them the obligatory hug and said, "Hey, Bob, Miriam," they didn't bat an eye. Like they ever did, really.

Big Bob graciously took my carry-on and we all walked out to the hummer.

"So, Helga, who's the guy?" Miriam asked, twisting around in her seat and blinking at me slowly.

"What! Miriam, do you _see_ a ring?" I stuck my left hand up in her face.

"Oh no, honey, no. I just thought, you never tell us anything, so, I thought, maybe you'd found a nice guy like Olga did and you were going to settle down..."

"Leave the girl alone, Miriam!" Big Bob barked. "Criminy, she just got off the plane, let her settle in or something first."

I just slumped back in the seat and tuned them both out. I had really become quite adept at doing that over the years.

Like I was really going to tell them the real reason I had returned to Hillwood. If they didn't like me going to college for a degree in English instead of business, like they were going to understand why I wanted to write a novel or why I needed to grace the place that gave me so much inspiration with my presence again.

It's not like I came back expecting to find football head returned and acting as my muse again. No. Of course I still felt fondly of hair boy but he wasn't exactly what I'd call "novel" material. I wanted to write something serious, something so much more complex than the longings of unfulfilled love. I wanted to write the story of my youth. Maybe not an autobiography, but something more allegorical. Something that people could relate to. Yeah, because people can relate to Helga G. Pataki.

Big Bob finally made it home. I took my bag up to my room. The room was slightly dank and oppressive when I stepped in, no one had opened a window years. It had regained that cold, impersonal smell of a room not lived in. Firstly, I opened a window, even though it was November. Then I looked around. My room looked exactly as it did when I left it, which meant it was still pretty childish and pink.

I didn't plan on staying with my parents long. I already had a job with a publishing company lined up, I just needed to save up enough dough to have a nice cushion before renting a flat. Yeah. That wouldn't be too hard. I mean, Christ, my parents alone were enough motivation to get me out of the damn house as quick as I could.

After I laid out my clothes in the dresser, I sat down on my bed and pulled out my laptop. I didn't feel like doing any serious writing, so I went to see if anyone felt like meeting up. Of course, I couldn't meet up with anyone I actually _wanted _to talk to, since Pheebs was off cavorting around in medical school and Rhonda had been drawn to Paris and its fashion like a moth to a flame.

Hell, I didn't even know who had stuck around in this two bit town. I'd find out shortly. I updated my facebook, saying I was back in Hillwood. Stinky, of all the godforsaken people in the world, replied. Stinky, the stupid southern hick. Criminy, he even typed like it, saying, "I reckon, Helga. I didn't think ya'll would ever come back here. If ya'll feel like doing some catchin' up we could go out to a bar I know, it's real good." It wasn't my idea of a Friday night to go out drinking with Stinky, so I didn't reply after that.

When an hour of aimless internet browsing didn't offer me any better prospects of what to do with my night, I grabbed my coat, black book, and a pen. Miriam was in the kitchen burning dinner, so I told her that I wasn't going to be home, then high tailed it for the door before she could slur why.

Once I was outside, I turned up the collar of my coat against the bitter wind and set to walking. The sullen sky was starting to darken, so I tried to hit all the places with important scenery before it was too black to see them properly. I was already starting to get haphazard fragments of memory clawing their way from wherever I had hidden them away. That must have been a damn sight: a tall, fierce looking blond girl scowling at you as you jogged by the bench she was sitting on, all the while scribbling in a notebook. Those saps must have thought I was writing a hit list for God's sake.

Eventually it was too dark to see what I was writing. I heaved myself from the bench and walked from the park to the middle of town. I was absolutely faint from hunger but none of the restaurants were appealing in the least. In the end I found myself in some no name bar, nursing a gimlet and writing alcohol inspired prose about the bar patrons, which I'm sure thrilled them.

For example, there was a guy sitting at this table all by himself. He had a beer in his hand and all he did was stare down the neck of the bottle. I mean, the Sam Adams was completely full, he didn't even have the heart to take a sip. Maybe he was already too drunk to care. The man was an ugly chap, with a high, thick brow, prominent beak nose, and no chin so to speak of. He had let at least 3 days of stubble build up along his hollow cheeks and non-chin. I let my imagination run wild and wrote a whole 11 page short story about how he was a war veteran who had fallen in love with a farmer's daughter during the war and had a bastard child that he would never see again. Yeah, I'd go and shoot myself in the foot if that was actually true, but inspiration's inspiration.

I was so focused on writing I hardly noticed the southern drawl calling my name. So when I looked up from my book to watch my current muse, I looked straight up the nose of none other than Stinky.

"Jesus, Stinky! I should punch you in the face, scarin' me like that!" I gasped, slamming my notebook shut.

"Gee, Helga, what a coincidence, runnin' into you! I don't reckon I mentioned the name of the place," Stinky laughed.

"No. You didn't," I said shortly.

"Whatchoo writin'?"

Stinky made himself right at home, draping his lanky frame all over the chair next to mine. He really hadn't changed much since the last time I saw him. Bastard was still tall as hell, but he lost the buzz cut in favour of some shaggy, in his eyes type style that looked damn stupid. He was growing a ridiculous goatee. Good thing I didn't have my Swiss Army knife or I would have shaved that wicked thing right off. That's how bad it looked.

"Nothing, Stinky," I said.

"Oh, well, what have you been doin' with yerself?" he grinned and took a sip of his beer.

"Graduating college, enjoying single life, the works. Yourself?" I rolled my eyes. That was understating a lot, but I didn't feel that Stinky needed to know every minuscule detail of my personal life thus far. For crying out loud, I don't think I even gave the kid an _inkling_ that I enjoyed his company back in high school.

"I'm workin' on becomin' a mecahnic. It ain't what I want to do, but you know how gettin' jobs is." Suddenly, I snorted into my gimlet. Stinky just looked down his nose at me like I was crazy. Of course, he probably always thought that I was crazy, so it didn't really matter. "What's funny like alla the sudden?"

"Nothing, I just remembered... remember when I dressed up in that ridiculous son of a bitch southern belle dress and forced you in a tuxedo?"

"Oh Lord, that was... we had to be ten. Oh Lord, I do. That was the ugliest dress, Helga."

Stinky got another insipid grin on his face and we sat there for a few minutes chuckling and snorting like two reminiscing fools. I decided it was in my best interest to abandon the gimlet and drink water instead. Stinky and I traded some tales, I told him of my more interesting sections of college life, he told me the going ons of this two bit town. Most of it I couldn't give two flying fucks about, but at least some of it was mildly interesting. Saved me from falling asleep. Criminy, that southern drawl was about as good as a sleeping pill. I nearly made a mental note to call Stinky the next time I got struck with a case of insomnia. 

Finally, I had all I could take of that, so I left Stinky at the bar. The night life was in full swing now; I wasn't all that keen on seeing all the gussied up club girls which meant I hopped a bus and rode back home. Big Bob was asleep in the living room with the TV blaring and I had no idea where Miriam was. What a night, what a day. I slunk up the stairs and went in my room. I threw off my coat, then sat down on my bed to flip through and review what I had wrote. Some of it was good, but I swear, what I wrote at the bar should be burned as soon as possible.

I saw that I had left my laptop running. I was all awake again after the bus ride home, so I opened up the laptop, to check my facebook page. And criminy, I nearly had a damn heart attack. Because of all the fucking people in this population of 6 billion, football head, Arnold Shortman, had sent this message: "That's funny, I'm about to leave for the airport right now, to take a plane back to Hillwood."

–

My first HA! Fic evar. I forgot how much I loved the show and how great it actually was.

Of course, only after I started writing this did I check the FF dot Net archives and saw that Helga and Arnold coming back after college is only the plot of HALF THE STORIES.

Great minds think alike, rite?


	2. Chapter 2

Once I had read the message from Arnold several times over, I, pathetically, was filled with burgeoning inspiration. I opened up my word processor and typed away into the wee hours of the night, recounting my formative years with the stupid football head. Finally at three in the goddamn morning, I had to put my laptop away. Criminy. I was an independent, degree holding woman, and the fool could still make me swoon. What a sap I was.

Then next day I woke up at noon with a splitting headache. I always got headaches when I overslept. So I wandered my way into the bathroom to down some advil. I looked at myself in the mirror and boy was I a sight. After washing my face, I decided I would go out to the park again. I needed to enjoy the free time I had: my new job started bright and early Monday morning. Not that I was really looking forward to editing some dumb fuck's grammar mistakes all day long, but hey, it gave me a foothold in the publishing business.

Today, however, I wasn't feeling the same burgeoning inspiration of yesterday. I guess the shock and awe of being back in Hillwood wore off, since I was left wondering what the hell possessed me so that I thought coming back here, _here_ of all the godforsaken places on God's green earth, was a good idea.

I bemoaned my existence for a few minutes, then walked around the park until I came to a bridge over a pond. I watched the clouds dance upon the pond's surface. The great plan I had in my head suddenly didn't seem so great. Here I was, still as damn lost as I was when I left for college.

Maybe I was a bird, maybe I was just as flighty as one. Maybe my bird bones were aching for something I could never achieve. I lifted my eyes toward the horizon, where the only thing I could see was row upon row, city block upon city block, of buildings. I was trapped, trapped again in the maze of concrete and dashed dreams. No, I couldn't be a bird. I was answering to man and his demands for comfort, for nostalgia, for safety, and especially for the familiar.

My body ached for adventure and wild passion. I wanted the bitter wind to always be upon my back, I needed to be on the edge, to feel as I felt when I was a child. When I was child, oh, when I was young, everything was so intense. My emotions were unadulterated, they were pure, and they were wild.

But now, they were dull. Growing up, growing into the expectations of the adult world, had rounded out their rough edges. My sense of social acceptability had moulded those once untameable feelings into a statue: they were cold and unfeeling, they were stoic, they were smooth and predictable.

Could that have been my true reason for returning? To see if the familiar released my emotions from their stone prison? Could I write with true passion and wit again upon their release, or would I be caught up in the tumult and loose myself once again? Oh, I wished I could, but it was impossible to say. I nearly lost myself in their torrent before.

I longed to say that I could be the master of my emotions. A true and good master, rather than the slavish warden I had been, is what I oft desired to be. Long how I wished to be in complete control yet still feel those hellion's whip and pull, like the froth and spray of the sea.

And with the sea there was always the element of danger: it was wild, it was free, it cared not for the minuscule boat upon its vast surface, and cared even littler for the human lives upon such a ship. If my emotions became like the sea once more, I would have to accept that maybe I could never be a master over them. For no one could control the sea.

I sighed and looked up from the placid surface of the lake. I would find neither passion or excitement upon its glassy spread.

The sky had darkened and the air had grown colder. Against the city's backdrop, I saw snowflakes drift gently down towards their inevitable death. Maybe it was best to head back home. But then again, the cold was making me feel on edge. It sent a shiver down my spine that dropped into my stomach, transforming into excitement. I could almost taste promise on the air.

So I left my sentinel's post at the bridge to walk to the airport. It was a silly, stupid thought, criminy, I didn't even know when football head's flight was. Why was I even going to the airport to find him? What did it matter to me? Of course, it meant everything. I was such a fool.

The thing about the cold is, that after a while, you're no longer on edge, you need a shock of warmth to remind you how brisk the cold really is. I hadn't realized how chilled I was until I stopped in some mom and pop coffee shop to grab a cappuccino. Jesus, I could barely stutter out, "Medium cappuccino with skim milk." Poor girl probably thought I was off my rocker, bat shit crazy, rubbing my hands together and shaking around the shop.

Criminy, why did I think it was such a good idea to _walk_ to the airport. Walk? In practically sub zero weather? Yeah, right.

I snatched my drink from the girl, stormed out of the shop, and hailed a taxi like the sane person I was usually not. When the cab driver asked where I wanted to go, I hovered between saying my address or the airport. But I was still feeling pretty sane, so I just said my address. Arnold would not be getting a good ol' Pataki greeting today.

–

"Aw, Helga, look at you! You look like a little bitty business woman, oh, honey," Miriam chuckled.

She stretched out her hands and fussed with my jacket's lapels for a minute until I had had enough and slapped her hands away.

"Mom, quit it. You're going to make me late," I said and pulled away. "I can straighten my own damn jacket," I muttered when I was out the door and safely on the bus.

I heaved a sigh of relief when I made it to work on time. Criminy, I would have been embarrassed, being late to my first day of a new job. Yeah, because that would make a right shining impression. But, I was on time. So that was good. That was a positive.

"Miss Pataki!" a woman's voice called out. I turned to see a tall woman with stupid looking glasses striding toward me. "I'm Anita Fynn, the senior assistant."

"Nice to meet you," I said and shook her hand.

"Oh... you have a very strong grip there, Miss Pataki... ow. Um," Anita rubbed her hand, "I just wanted to show you to your office, it's right down here. I've already got a few things I need you to do..."

Which apparently meant getting coffee for everyone. Gee, I didn't know I'd been hired as a damn personal assistant, Anita. I thought I was an editor. Okay, so I was just a junior editing assistant, distinctions, distinctions, but still, criminy.

To add insult to injury, everyone was pleased with my coffee fetching skills, which made me the default coffee fetcher. Wonderful. Needless to say, I was very glad when I was able to go home. Working this job was a bad idea. It was sapping my creativity already. I would never write a goddamn novel at this rate.

As soon as I arrived home, I stomped straight upstairs to kick off my heels and flop on my bed. I didn't get up for an hour. I didn't even answer my ringing cell phone. That damn thing must have rung about ten times before I actually picked it up. Whoever was calling me was obviously intent on talking to little ol' me. I looked at the caller id, and it turned out to be Pheebs.

"Hey," I answered the phone casually.

"Hi, Helga!" she said cheerfully, much more so that usual, seeing as she was a pretty perky person. "How's being back home? How's you new job?"

"Sucky and suckier, let me tell you, Pheebs."

"Oh, I'm sorry... I just wanted to call you with some good news... Gerald proposed!" Phoebe squeaked.

"He finally got the guys to pop the question? Shit, Phoebe, congrats!" I said, sitting straight up. "Give me the deets."

Phoebe gave a little squeak that was probably from a combination of embarrassment and excitement. I was truly happy for her, and it was only logical that she'd marry tall hair boy, they'd only been together for as long as I could remember. Longer than most people are married. In fact, if Gerald hadn't proposed, I'd probably haul my ass down to the radio station he worked at and kick his ass.

"He was very... traditional. Got down on one knee and pulled out a box and," Phoebe squeaked again, "and asked if I would marry him and of course I said yes!"

"Ha ha, well, congrats again, Pheebs. I'm totally stoked for you."

"Th-thank you, Helga! I thought since you were in town, and I'm here this whole week, I was wondering if you'd like to go out with Gerald and me to dinner sometime this week?"

"Sure, just let me know what day and I'll be there."

"Would Wednesday work for you?" Phoebe asked.

"Yeah, I'll make sure to keep my already _packed_ schedule clear," I said sarcastically.

Phoebe and I talked for nearly an hour and half after that. We talked about a lot of things. I told her about my first day of work and how I had inadvertently gone drinking with Stinky. She got a kick out of that for some reason. Sheesh, I didn't think it was that funny. Whatever tickles you fancy, Phoebe.

I only told her goodbye because Big Bob was yelling up the stairs that dinner was ready, making me feel like I was fucking 12 or something. God, I couldn't wait to move out.

–

pars two. Near the end of august, updates will probably become more and more sporadic until months and months have passed... because I will be going back to school. But I will try to get some parts pre-written so I can still post even if I'm not able to write lol.

I am determined to finished a damn serialized fanfiction for once, since Jesus, I suck at that.


	3. Chapter 3

It was Wednesday evening. I had just gotten off work, where things were starting to get slightly better, and I was now at home, deciding what to wear for the dinner with Pheebs and her fiancé. She had told me that the place was casual while still being a step above wear whatever the hell you want.

Finally I decided on a light blue striped Oxford shirt, a grey sweater, dark jeans, and some black pumps. Not too dressy, but not wicked casual. I grabbed my wallet, notebook, and coat before walking out the door, not bothering to tell either of my parents where I was going. Like Miriam would even be that cognisant anyway.

The place I was going to meet Phoebe and Gerald at was halfway across town, so I did some more passenger inspired writing on the bus ride. You got over the creeper feeling after the first few times. However, none of the people riding the bust looked very interesting, so I didn't end up writing much.

The walk to the restaurant, once I got off the bus, was quick and short. Inside, I quickly scanned the dim room for signs of Phoebe or tall hair boy. Aha! There they were, back in a corner. I strode over.

Phoebe looked up as I approached and gave me a big smile. She was all smiles. Since the occasion was so damn special, I gave Pheebs a hug and Gerald a handshake, saying my congratulations all the while. We, well, I stood, Phoebe and Gerald sat, talking for a long time about all sorts of crazy things like taxes and politics, yee haw.

"Hey, Gerald, Phoebe!" a male voice interrupted our conversation.

I looked up into the eyes of none other than football head in all his oblong glory, Arnold Shortman. He hadn't changed much since I last saw him. He was still tall (though I was taller than him only due to my heels), still had that weird head, still had crazy hair, still had intense eyes.

"Helga?" he asked quizzically looking from me to Gerald.

"In the flesh, football head," I said, calling him by his nickname to his face for old time's sake.

He politely pulled out my chair for me and helped me into it. Oh, so chivalrous. Arnold sat down next to me, so we were both facing Phoebe and Gerald.

"We just thought it'd be nice to celebrate with our two respective best friends," Gerald said mildly in explanation. "So, how was flying in, Arnold?"

"It was good, I didn't have any real trouble," Arnold said.

"Oh, yes, how was it, flying on your own?" Phoebe asked.

Flying? On his own? Like what, as a damned pilot or something? That was the last thing I expected Arnold to become. I mean, come on, he was dead set on becoming a psychologist the last time I spoke with him. Freak.

"It was great. I'll take you out for a ride, Phoebe," Arnold said.

"When did you become a pilot, Arnoldo?" I said.

"I got my certificate a few weeks ago. It's just a private one," he replied, taking his glass of wine from the waiter who had appeared, dropping off our drinks.

I shrugged and sipped my own wine. Never knew he had any desire to be a pilot. Maybe I'd ask him to take me for a spin if I could get the courage. I was sure flying with him would be better than being stuck on a Boeing with coughing middle aged men and cranky children. Much better.

"So what plane you flyin', Arnold?" Gerald asked, which then launched the two men into a winding, complicated conversation about Arnold's plane, propeller speeds, kits, and construction of said plane.

At that time, I decided it would be prudent to talk with Phoebe, so we discussed her proto-wedding plans. We talked until I thought I would die if I heard one more thing about planes or guest lists. Maybe that should be a lesson, never get married, Helga. You'd only want to shoot yourself halfway through the planning process and then you'd just leave a sad, heartbroken fiancé behind. Not so good.

I nearly cried with relief when the waiter came to take our orders. That golden opportunity had to be utilized well, so I broke the split second silence after the waiter left by asking Arnold what he had been doing since I last saw him. Besides, you know, learning how to fly. Yes! Go me. No more plane talk, no more wedding talk!

"Well, huh, besides learning to fly? Not much, really. Just working," Arnold answered.

"No college? No trips to fantastic foreign countries? I thought you were dead set on becoming a head shrink."

"Just working."

"Wow, you got boring," I snorted.

"Work kind of saps you of any will to live," Arnold responded.

"Huh, tell me about it. Sheesh, Pheebs, how are you going to plan a wedding and become Miss Neurosurgeon and work your little job?"

"Oh, I'm sure I can manage, Helga," Phoebe said demurely.

"So how long are you going to be in Hillwood?" I shot at Arnold out of nowhere. What the hell was I doing? I thought I learned how to be civil to the man.

"What about you?" he shot back.

"As long as I need to," I said.

"I only came down to celebrate with Gerald and Phoebe, I'm going back tomorrow."

"So where do you work?"

"Why are you suddenly so interested in me?"

"Excuse me for trying to be nice and create conversation!"

"Yeah, I don't really see much conversin' happenin' between all _four_ of us," Gerald said.

"Excuse me," I said and pushed my chair away from the table.

Then I ran to the restroom.

What the hell was I doing? I used my hands to prop myself on the sink and gazed at my stupid face in the mirror. Christ in heaven, here I was, supposed to be having a celebratory dinner with my friends, and Arnoldo shows up and I go all psycho bitch on him? Had I unlearned everything I had learned? Criminy!

Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself, fixed my hair, and walked back to the table. No one looked at me as I sat back down. Our food hadn't arrived, so I took a big, sloppy gulp of wine. The silence was unbearable.

"Hey, you know Pheebs, I never saw your ring," I said as confidently as I could.

"Oh... you're right!" Phoebe said brightly.

At least she recognized my attempt at making everything normal again. Phoebe brought out her left hand and showed off her modest ring. It was a good ring for her, as it was neither complicated or showy, just simply beautiful. I admired it for a few minutes, then she lifted her hand out of mine and showed it to Arnold.

"That's a nice ring, Phoebe," he said.

"Thanks, Arnold. I'm very happy with it," Phoebe smiled and kissed Gerald's cheek.

There was silence once again, until Gerald asked, "So, Helga, how was life in the big city?"

"Oh? Yeah, it was fine, never a dull day, let me tell you. Curly would have been among friends there," I laughed. "My room mate was going to art college and boy, she was out there. She had all sorts of freaks for friends."

No one seemed very amused by that statement, so I should have taken it as my cue to shut up, but no, I kept talking. Like an idiot. Sheesh.

"One of her friends... he was damn hilarious any time he was over. Kid had to be on drugs. I was writing a paper one time, she had the kid over, and he walked up to me and said, 'Helga! I need your help, oh, please Helga!' So I said 'Yeah, with what?' To which he replied, 'I don't know how to tell my parents I'm a starfish. How do I tell them I'm a starfish?'"

Gerald snorted and Phoebe cracked a smile. I didn't dare look over at Arnold to see his reaction.

The rest of the dinner went all right. I didn't get into any inadvertent word battles with Arnold, so I suppose that was a plus. As I sat at the bus stop, I reflected upon the dinner. Arnold had changed. He wasn't the same boy I had been friends with, he wasn't the same boy I had dated. And what was with that comment, "Work kind of saps you of any will to live,"? That was the most un-Arnold comment I had ever heard grace his lips.

What had happened to him? Jesus...

"I didn't know you took the bus too," his voice said.

I looked over on the bench and saw Arnold sit down beside me. In the harsh fluorescent light from the lamppost, he looked much different. In the dim light of the restaurant, he had looked tall, strong, and confident. But out here, he looked small and defeated. He almost sagged.

"Well, I only walked across town the first time in high heels... I thought taking the bus would be easier this time," I said sarcastically. "Er, sorry about dinner," I muttered.

"Okay, Helga," is all he said.

And then I realized how tense we both were. Years of unsaid feelings and emotions were strung between us like a net. A net that kept us connected, that kept me thinking about him even when he was gone, even when we were miles apart. I wanted to reach for his gloved hand; I wanted to make the connection more than just a tangled web of things left to rot.

But I couldn't. I knew nothing of his life. For what it's worth, he could have a girlfriend. A significant other. Hell, for all I knew he could be gay and have a boyfriend waiting for him back home. That, of course, wasn't likely, but still.

The silence was fragile. Neither of us said anything. I could almost feel the air becoming brittle. Swallowing, I adjusted my scarf so it covered more of my neck. Then I thoughtfully examined my hands. Arnold pulled out his cellphone and checked the time. He looked up at the sky for a second, letting a few drifting snowflakes land on his cheeks.

"You know, when I was little, I would stare at the snow like this... and imagine that I was flying," he said.

His voice was barely above a whisper. I nearly didn't hear what he said. But I did. And it broke my heart.

"To your parents," I said softly, more of a statement than a question.

"Yes," he whispered.

And at that moment, the net broke. I couldn't be arm's length from him my whole life! He was much too complex of a man now, a multifaceted, rough diamond, still as humbly optimistic, as quietly suffering, but a thousandfold more than I had ever remembered! Criminy, that sounded sappy, but my heart was beating quick.

The rough squeal and low hiss of the bus startled me. The doors swung open for us; we both got up, but just as Arnold was about to step on the bus, I grabbed his hand. He looked back at me, wearing a slightly puzzled look. I gave him pleading one back. Arnold turned his face back to the bus driver and shook his head.

The bus shut its doors and drove off.

"Helga, what's so important that—"

He never finished that question, for I had thrown my arms around him in a tight and rather desperate hug.

–

Pars 3. I'm pretty much making this up as I go along which is totally **not** how to write, so things will probably be inconsistent. Um, this will probably be less than 10 parts long. I'll start small n_n.

ps: this whole story has been inspired by Týr's Hail to the Hammer which is weird because this story is like completely unrelated Q_Q.


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